


Each Step

by Ardatli



Series: The Dale Cycle [5]
Category: Young Avengers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Except Billy, Heather Dale, M/M, Mature rating is for violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-23
Updated: 2015-07-23
Packaged: 2018-04-10 18:34:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4402775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ardatli/pseuds/Ardatli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>God would show them the way, that had been the promise. God would speed the footsteps of His holy warriors, and they would be lights in the darkness, bearing the Word to those who cried out for redemption.</p><p>And now nothing, <i>nothing</i> made sense at all. </p><p>The fire outside shifted, grew brighter, and Mary’s glasswork tears seemed to be rolling down her face. </p><p>The world had gone mad. </p><p>The only constant he had ever had was William. </p><p>He needed to find William.</p><p>--</p><p>Or, the one where Teddy is a Crusader, Billy and Tommy are pretending to be pilgrims, and everything is going to hell in a handbasket.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Each Step

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [Each Step, by Heather Dale.](https://youtu.be/ypUcOIV4rNk?list=PL2kdjR4vw6B9Y7nDiAUmCs1lEAzQumVKr%0A)
> 
> https://youtu.be/ypUcOIV4rNk?list=PL2kdjR4vw6B9Y7nDiAUmCs1lEAzQumVKr
> 
> This one... took way too long to get back to. But I'm posting! Look! It's a Dale Cycle chapter! The guys are all on Crusade now, and there's one more story to go between this one and Lady of the Lake. Then there will be a few more following to round out the original cycle as planned. Thank you so much for staying with me!
> 
> Those who haven't read previous stories should probably start back at the beginning, with 'Road to Santiago.' Things will probably make more sense from there.
> 
> \- 
> 
> Note: This work is NONLINEAR. Keep an eye on the datestamps if things seem confusing.

_Dry your eyes, and give me your hand_

_We'll see the same stars as I travel the land_

_The world is still round, my compass is true_

_Each step is a step back to you_

 

**The Fall of Zara, 24 November 1202.**

Flames burned red and yellow, lighting the granite and marble of the sanctuary. The fire’s glow shone through the shards of coloured glass, glinting in rippling remonstration off the glass and precious stones that littered the blood-slick floor.

The stairs to the altar cut into Theodore’s knees, the edges hard and unforgiving. His sword took his weight as he sagged against it, tip buried in the wood at the base of the altar rail, the spread hilt casting a moving, burning shadow of Christ’s death across the shattered and broken evidence of their new sins.

Tears or blood ran hot down Theodore’s face – the difference didn’t matter.

The world had ended tonight.

             _Step._

**Zara, a moment ago**

The doors to the church swung loosely on broken hinges, the tower above standing blank-eyed and reproachful as it stared out over the burning city. Bodies, broken, fallen and empty, lay along the stone-paved road, some with arrows protruding like sick and twisted idols of St. Sebastian in his agony.

This agony was real.

Screams echoed up from the town below and Theodore fled from them, his sword in hand and slick with blood, ears ringing from the blows he’d taken on his helm. His head was too hot, sweat trickling down into his eyes and burning them, so that tears began to form.

He stopped running when his footsteps echoed inside the high-domed entry, numb fingers fumbling with the straps and buckles that Arnauld had fastened only – what had it been? It could not have been more than minutes before, or perhaps days.

Everything now was blood and darkness.

His helm smelled of vomit and Theodore threw it from him, as far as he could. The metal clanged loudly, the sound echoing up the column of the open tower until it sounded like bells, bells tolling out the Crusade’s brilliant victory.

He scrubbed his mouth and face with the back of his sleeve, clearing the hair from his eyes. The church was empty, desolate, the treasures of the altar already gone, with only empty niches staring back at him where St. Donatus and the Holy Family would have once stood.

His feet crunched as he made his way down the centre aisle, moving as though in a trance towards the vast picture window behind the altar, the glow of the fires down below beginning to rise up and give form to the dark-shrouded shapes.

Mother Mary knelt with her son in her arms, tears on her cheeks and every curve and fall of her veils lovingly rendered in glass and lead. Where Joseph should have stood was only void, smashed glass, a ballista stone on the floor telling the end of things.

“We were wrong,” Theodore – called the Dragon, commander of the armies of Methengau, sworn vassal to Count Gregory, member of the Fourth most Holy Crusade – whispered aloud. His voice echoed back to him, harsh and thick with gutturals. “Holy Lady, we were wrong.”

Chivalry and knightly oaths – what were they in the face of greed and bloodlust?

Zara was full of Christians. They had hung flags bearing the cross from their windows as the siege engines battered down their walls, begging for mercy that would never come.

And how much did even _that_ matter? William and Thomas were two of the best men he knew and they weren’t Christians. They didn’t even want to be saved.

Theodore’s boot soles were caked with red and brown, blood and dirt mixed and caked on so thick they would never come clean. The world spun around him, voices, oaths, memories of communion and wine sitting thick in his mouth. He had stitched his own cross on his cloak with sure and steady hands, so certain of everything.

God would show them the way, that had been the promise. God would speed the footsteps of His holy warriors, and they would be lights in the darkness, bearing the Word to those who cried out for redemption.

And now nothing, _nothing_ made sense at all.

The fire outside shifted, grew brighter, and Mary’s glasswork tears seemed to be rolling down her face.

The world had gone mad.

The only constant he had ever had was William.

He needed to find William.

             _Step._

**Venice, 30 September 1202**

The three of them sat Theodore’s rooms in Venice, the fall sky thundering low and grey, an apt expression for the mood in the room below. A thousand vessels floated out in the harbour, four times that number of tents and banners sat outside the city. Twelve thousand, the heralds claimed, less than half of what was expected. Still enough to make the infidels quake at their approach.

Theodore’s two favourite infidels were not exactly quaking now.

“You cannot go, and that is final.” William planted his fists on his hips, any shyness between them long vanished. Their first furtive beddings of almost a year ago had grown and settled into something more precious and infinitely more complicated, made worse by the slow and steady improvement in William’s confidence – and his damned notion that he was right about everything.

And naturally, Thomas was no help.

“Listen to the brat,” William’s fair-haired twin lounged on the wooden bench, gnawing on a green apple. “He’s got a point.”

“Thank you.”

Theodore curled his lip at Thomas in an attempt at a warning, which hardly seemed to make an impact. “I don’t recall being offered a choice in the matter. The Crusade will divert to Zara before we continue on to Egypt. Those are the new commands, and the fleet will take them whether I raise a fuss about it or no.”

“De Montfort’s pulling his troops out instead of taking the Doge’s orders,” Thomas added, very much unhelpfully. “They mean to camp on the south shore instead of approaching Zara at all.”

William didn’t seem inclined to wait for Theodore’s answer, pacing back and forth across the small stone-walled room. Every surface in the room was touched by some carnal memory or another they had made, the best of all being the times following when they lay in each other’s arms and whispered softly into the night. William didn’t seem inclined to care about that, either, filling the room with his anger instead. “Men will _die_ , Theodore, or do you not care? It’s a fool’s errand.”

Now it was William who didn’t understand. “The men will die even if I do not go. I’m their commander, and it’s my duty to mitigate whatever damage I can. I can keep my men in check.”

“You’re a fool if you think that!” William exploded. Thomas’ hand on his arm seemed to quell him for a moment, his mood shifting in a display of capriciousness that Theodore had rarely seen from him before. “Leave them,” he begged. “Come with us instead.”

Could he? Theodore’s destiny had been intertwined with Gregory’s for so long, as his friend, fellow squire, and now his general, sworn in binding fealty. He had men who trusted him, ready to live and die under his command.

He had his father’s injunctions, words that rang in his ears now just as clearly as they had when he had been fifteen. _Do honour to Methengau._

He had his oaths, sworn on a sword and a cross.

And here stood William, who had abandoned Siena to come with Theodore as far as Venice, who shared his bed, knew everything about him – and still believed that he could ever break his word.

Maybe they didn’t know each other that well after all.

“And do what?” Theodore shouted back, his temper, anger and fear finally breaking through the calm he had desperately tried to cling to. “I don’t expect you to understand duty and vows – you’re not even a real pilgrim!”

That was a shot too far, and William’s recoil, the flat blank look that came into his eyes--those cut him as deeply as Thomas’ quiet, sucked-in breath.

When William spoke next, his voice was as cold as the deep blue winter waters of home. “We should have parted ways with you long ago!”

“So why didn’t you?”

_Too far, he went too far-_

And this time he would not have a chance to make any repairs. Theodore closed his eyes tightly, a familiar prickling at the corners making ready to betray him. “I sail to Zara tomorrow,” he said simply. The tearing feeling inside his chest was his heart splitting in two. “You can come or not.”

William’s answer was just as calm, and just as cool. “We’re not going with you. Not this time.”

            _Step._

**Zara, a moment hence**

Prayer had given him no solace, the ruined church no answers. Theodore left the way he had come, leaving his soiled and stinking helm to lay where it had fallen. His sword went back on his hip; no symbol of the cross would replace the desecration that had taken place here, the font knocked over, the chalices and silks missing.

And no weapon made by man would save his soul.

Walking down to the city again, half in a trance, the smoke billowed thick into his nose and mouth, and Theodore coughed it out again. The flames were slowly subsiding in the market quarter, but the shouting and crying persisted. The gutters ran with water tainted red, and soot blackened the walls of the houses.

The dead lay everywhere, sheets cast over a few, others left where they had fallen. A woman curled protectively over a small white-draped form and shouted curses at him as he passed.

Gleeful shouts came from inside one house, larger than the others, followed by the sound of crashing wood, splintering furniture – the sounds of men taking their pleasures in the spoils of conquest.

That, at least, he could solve.

His sword came easily to his hand, his gold and green tabard now black and soiled, the dragon’s wings no longer gleaming in the light. Theodore rounded the corner and in through the door, skidding on the rug laid out over the mosaic-tiled floor. There were four of them, not his men, not Gregory’s, but crusaders nevertheless. “Halt there,” Theodore commanded loudly. “Stop!” They had their arms filled with treasures, cups and fabrics, jewelled chains that spilled over their fingers in glittering streams of silver. A crucifix sat in pride of place above the fireplace, undisturbed. “This is a Christian home!”

_And what does that matter? They are human beings just as we, no matter what their faith- why should that make a difference?_

“Was a Christian home, you mean,” the leader of them gloated, swagger in his steps as he came toward Theodore and the door he guarded.

“What have you done here?” Theodore begged for answers, anything that would give him something to hold to as the world spun rapidly out from under him again.

“Only what we were ordered to, General,” Frederick Kneebiter stepped out of the shadows, wiping a bloodied dagger clean on the hem of his cloak. “Same thing you’ve done. We took the city.”

“But not the homes – not their treasures. Not their women, their children!” The rows of little bodies, some caught and felled mid-stride, hands reaching out for help that would never come-

“Their coin, Drache. By whatever means necessary.” Frederick put his hand on Theodore’s arm and pushed him aside, allowing his men to leave, plunder in their hands. “Coin for Venice’s shipbuilders, at Doge Dandalo’s request. And Count Gregory’s command.”

             _Step._

 

**Venice, 15 July 1202**

The tent walls hung limp and heavy in the unexpected summer heat, only the relief from the sun keeping them inside. It gave them a chance to have it out, if nothing else; this was one conversation Theodore had no interest in having in front of the men.

“This is madness, Gregory,” he insisted, and brought the palm of his hand flat down on the table between them for loud emphasis. “The eastern Christians are just the same as us. Their king even pledged to send men to our pilgrimage.”

“And have you seen those men?” Gregory leaned back in the wide slotted chair, resting his arm on the tapestry pillows he had brought with him from home. It seemed so far away now, that draughty castle in the northern woods. Something from another world, another lifetime.  “I haven’t. The men of Zara are sinners, Theodore. And the Doge would have it be so.”

“Since when is the Doge of Venice in control of the Holy Father’s Crusade?” A thrill of something sinister rolled queasily through Theodore’s belly. It came to him slowly. “The pope cannot have approved this.”

Gregory waggled his hand in the air, his smile slow, like a snake uncoiling. “The Holy Father will approve anything the Doge asks for. We sail for Zara in October, as planned.”

“But he hasn’t approved it _yet_.”

A pause, one that stretched into forever.

“He’s refused the Doge’s request, hasn’t he.”

“Say nothing. The men will not learn of that; not from _you_.” Gregory was out of his chair like a shot, his hands on the table to face off against Theodore. Theodore’s gut roiled again, his heart hammering in his chest. He was supposed to back down now, to roll over on command like a good hunter and let Gregory have his way.

But this – the deaths of good men, the inevitable murder of innocents, on the word of an old and blind man and against the wishes of Rome – it was then that Theodore knew. He had a final straw after all.

“So be it.” He straightened, and unbuckled his belt. Gregory’s badge hung from a loop strung upon it, a sign of Theodore’s loyalty, his fealty, his love. “I cannot continue in your service. I’ll not be the instrument of wanton death. We have no enemies in Zara.”

Theodore stared his old friend and liege-lord, stared straight into those unblinking fair eyes. There was nothing there that he recognized anymore; no feeling, no humour – only blank determination and something sinister simmering low beneath.

Gregory all but purred when next he replied, his eyes narrow slits and gleaming, as dangerous as any predator in the woods or in the deep.

“Your fealty belongs to me. It can be altered only through release, or death, and I do not release you. Until death, Sir Theodore, you belong to me.”

             _Step._

**Zara**

There were too many of them. Time and again Theodore entered a house, found men he would once have called good men, holy men, committing acts that were anything but. Here a desecrated shrine, there a wealthy home stripped of all its valuables. There a girl being dragged off – that crime in the making he ended with a flash of his sword, not caring that until yesterday, the man he struck down would have been his brother-in-arms.

She ran away, fleet as a hind and twice as nimble, into the night-dark alleyways. He wouldn’t know what to say to her if she had stayed.

Ruins smouldered on either sides of the streets, tendrils of smoke rising and spreading out into the starry sky above. How could they shine down so, unmoved and unaltered? They must see the carnage that had been wrought here.

Perhaps they saw and didn’t care.

William had warned him. Theodore had been too arrogant to listen. Arrogant to assume he could hold any control over men when the blood was in their noses, stupid to think that the tide once unleashed could be turned back.

No looting, that had been the plan. Ensure their surrender only, no destruction, no needless death.

And look what had happened anyway.

A creak of shoes, the scuffle of stones; someone was behind him. Theodore spun, bringing his sword up in a gesture as much muscle memory as intentional warning. The man in the alley was a local, not a crusader, his simple shirt and trews stained red and brown with blood. A wound in the side of his head still oozed fluids, and his gnarled farmer’s hands shook around the hilt of the sword he held.

The girl stood in the alleyway behind him, shouting out her anguish to the sky.

The stars didn’t listen to her, either.

“Please!” Theodore flung up his hands, still holding on to his sword. His helm was long gone now, abandoned in the church. “I’m here to help,” he pleaded, but the red cross still burned bright on his cloak. “Ask her-“ he pointed, because then perhaps she could tell him how Theodore had come to her aid, and-

With a howl that sang with desperation, the old farmer swung his blade around his head, a wild dervish of tempered, blooded steel. He ran for Theodore, leaping down off the pile of rubble that had once been a storefront, his sword aimed for Theodore’s bare and unprotected throat.

In a dream, a moment of instinct, Theodore slashed with his sword, batted away the weapon as easily as though he were training squires. The man toppled, carried with the momentum of his run and his swing, and his fall carried him down, down until he slid, throat impaled on Theodore’s blade, to land at his feet.

His head grinned, wild and toothy, spitted on Theodore’s sword.

“No!” Theodore cried out, pulled back his sword and dropped it, fumbled for something to stem the bleeding. Perhaps the blade had missed the artery, or by some divine glory Will would be behind him, forgiving him, ready to work his miracles once more.

But Will didn’t come. And the blade had not missed. His blood running thick between Theodore’s fingers, his attacker slumped in Theodore’s arms, and the life faded from his eyes.

              _Step._

 

**Venice, 1 October 1202**

It should have been a day for victorious celebration, the start of a bold campaign to free the captive territories. Thousands – hundreds of thousands! – of people would be liberated from the tyrants who ruled them, if this Crusade was successful. The crowds massing at the docks certainly seemed to feel that way. They lined the streets, hands out for the chance of brushing against one of the riders’ cloak hems. Banners with the red cross rose above them, hanging from windows, banner poles, pennants flying below the coats of arms of their leaders.

Gregory’s banner led their way, Theodore and his army; it rose high above them, the arms of the Count of Methengau, servant of the Holy Roman Emperor. Theodore should have been proud to wear those same colours upon his belt.

Instead all he felt inside was empty.

William had not come to his bed last night. Theodore had hardly expected him to, after the way they had parted. But then when Theodore had gone looking for _Will_ in turn – to apologize, to explain, to beg one last sweet kiss – the twins could not be found anywhere.

They had slipped off in the middle of the night; it was the only explanation. Gregory would not release Theodore, and William would not keep him. And so the cries of ‘courage!’ and the blessings called down to them barely penetrated, the lazy autumn sun doing nothing at all to warm his skin.

He had chosen duty, honour, his oaths, his responsibilities. He had done the proper thing.

So why did he feel so desperately, achingly hollow?

The ships waited for them at the docks, gleaming, new and perfect. There were many more here than they needed, an overestimation on the part of the negotiators who had arranged for the transport to Egypt. How that was to be paid for was not Theodore’s concern, though he’d overheard mutterings amongst the leaders at their late-night conferences, strategy meetings that sometimes lasted until the early hours of dawn.

He couldn’t think about that now. Nor about William of London, or the way Theodore’s bed last night had been so desperately cold, large, and empty. Not when he had men to load, supplies to manage, his page to find- Arnaud sat sturdily astride his horse a few places behind Theodore in the line. Some commotion jostled the crowd behind him, and Arnaud tugged his mount out of the way before Theodore could make out what was happening.

Even then, he took a second to believe it.

Four of Gregory’s guard – not Theodore’s men, but ones who reported directly to the Count himself – pushed through the crowd, half-dragging two bound and stumbling men between them. William and Thomas looked as though they’d not slept, their faces smeared with dirt, and Thomas’ clothes torn as though he had put up a powerful fight. Neither showed major injuries, thank God, at least not from what Theodore could see from where he sat on his horse. But William looked up at him when they passed, and the searing desperation and betrayal written there sent a dagger plunging straight into Theodore’s heart.

Thomas, on the other hand, said words that blistered the air, and a woman in the crowd clapped her hands smartly over her young son’s ears.

“Stop there!” Theodore found his voice after they had already passed him, heading up the line toward Gregory. He kneed his horse into motion and sprang after them, some foot soldiers diving rapidly out of the way. “What’s going on here? Under whose authority have these men been taken prisoner?”

 _And why – for the love of God,_ why?

Had their secret been discovered? Had the truth of the twins’ faith been revealed somehow? Worse yet, were they only being taken to hurt _him_ , as some kind of payback for his attempted mutiny those months ago?

“Under my authority.” Gregory turned his mount so that he was facing the twins, their guards and Theodore, and his assessing look was as hard as steel. “They were making noises around Venice about leaving; buying supplies for the road. Now how could I let my miracle man leave, right when we’re going to need him the most?”

“If you think I’m going to be of any help to you, you... snivelling _warthog_ , you’ve never been more wrong in your life!” Will spat the insults out at Gregory and got a cuff to the head from one of the guards as a result.

Theodore didn’t think, _couldn’t_ think, all sense of duty or self-preservation vanishing in that horrific instant when the guard’s gloved hand made contact with Will’s skull. He rode forward, cutting between the guard and Will and making himself a wall between them. “They’re not sworn to you, Gregory,” he said, trying to catch Will’s eye. _I had nothing to do with this. Please, please believe me._ “They’ve committed no crime. You have no right!”

“We need him,” the Count said airily, as though that was answer enough. “We may require a healer, and the good Lord Himself has provided us with one. And,” he continued, skewering the twins with a look, “what holy man would not want to help God’s own Crusade? Take them,” he ordered, and half a dozen soldiers rushed to do his bidding. Theodore swung himself down out of his saddle and tried to intervene, but he was pushed aside and found himself staring up at Gregory, far too close to the solid, sharp hooves of Gregory’s armoured warhorse.

Cursing in a language Theodore had never heard before, William and Thomas were half-pushed, half-carried up the gangplank, and on to Gregory’s command ship.  

“Until death,” Gregory warned, his voice pitched low, a reminder for Theodore alone. He moved in the saddle and his horse reared, the stallion’s hooves slamming back down to the ground less than a finger length from Theodore’s feet.

He stood, fighting to keep his face from displaying the shock-terror-loathing that spooled through his body all in that instant.

Gregory turned his stallion’s head away. “Remember that when you wonder whose side you’re on.”

            _Step._

 

**Zara, midnight. The beginning of 25 November, 1202**

The ship stood half-empty, maybe more than half. Most of the men would still be in the city, or in the colourful tents that lined the shore. The chain of little islands and breakwaters that protected the harbour kept the ships lying still at anchor, despite the winds and waves that crashed and broke far out in the night-black sea.

A guard nodded to him, began to speak, but Theodore held up a hand and he fell silent. No-one would challenge his right to be on the command ship; he was still Gregory’s man, for all that mattered now. The night hid Theodore’s helm-less, horse-less return from anyone else, his steps slowed by the ache in his muscles, and the deeper, agonizing wounds in his heart. He had only one destination in mind, only one purpose left.

Rations could be found in the hold, supplies meant for a larger army than anyone had been able to muster. Bread, cheese, a skin of wine, and then he left the store-room with his burden, letting the door click softly closed behind him.

The next entryway was barred, a guard standing watch with a sword and small crossbow at his side. The man – a boy, really, no more than a few years older than Arnauld – straightened at Theodore’s approach, his eyes going wide at what must be a dreadful sight. “What news, General?” His voice trembled with excitement, tinged heavily with fear.

“The city is ours,” Theodore said quietly, the weight of the words sitting heavy on his tongue so that it took more effort than ever to spit them out. “Go,” he ordered, drawing on his strength to turn it to a proper command. “I relieve you.”

It didn’t need any more than that to convince him. The boy scurried off, leaving the hallway empty but for Theodore. And the two men held behind that locked door.

The keys were easy, hanging on a hook on the wall; the padlock still bright and new metal that turned smoothly. He started to push the door open.

A spark of blue flashed somewhere in the darkness beyond.

“Don’t!” Theodore called out. That colour only meant one thing; only one miracle worker spun eldritch energies that looked like that. “It’s me. Only me. I – “ And what else was there to say? “Don’t shoot.”

The spark faded and died, then grew again, forming into a small ball that swirled in William’s cupped palms. Theodore breathed out softly, caught up for a moment in the wonder of the light, the power that rested in William’s broad-palmed hands. “I brought food,” Theodore offered, not coming closer. “And drink.”

“Are you our jailor now, too?” Thomas’ voice cracked out of the darkness, a jumbled mix of anger and hard-edged desperation. “That was some trick you pulled to get us here.”

“Please,” Theodore tried to speak, to find the words, but his lips were dry and his voice cracked. “I didn’t have anything to do with it.” He spread his palms in the dim blue light, William still a shadowed figure on the other side, his features invisible in the dark. “I thought you had left Venice, after we argued – I wish you had.”

The light moved closer, William’s face resolving into familiar, beloved features. Then as the light spilled across Theodore’s face, his armour, his hands, Will’s eyes went wide and the light floated away, to hover, brighter, near the ceiling. “You’re covered in blood.” He crossed the rest of the small room in two long strides, those honey-brown eyes filled with panic. “Where are you hurt?”

“It’s-“ Theodore began, but sank down the wall instead to rest, sitting bent-kneed, on the wooden floor. The food went on the floor beside him, the wineskin rolling, still sealed. “None of it’s mine.”

Thomas drew closer, cautiously, wary like a stalking animal. William plunked himself down at Theodore’s side, though, and studied his face closely. “What happened?”

Theodore drew in one shuddering breath, then the words tumbled out of him in a jumbled mess. “You were right. About all of it. We came to the walls and the siege engines broke them down. The people of Zara showed us the cross, begged for mercy, and they found none.”

Images blurred together behind his eyes and he closed them tight. Leaning back against the solid wall of the room helped some, but the ship still moved, however slightly, on the rolling waters. The gentle sway only added to the sense of unreality created by the eldritch light.

“It was as though they were possessed, fuelled by hatred and bloodlust. Nothing I did – nothing I _said-_ they. _We_. Fell upon the city like animals. I thought I could stem the tide, control the attack, but I was wrong. I fought my own men, to protect an enemy who should never have been an enemy at all.” 

“That whole ‘running away’ thing is starting to look pretty good right about now, I bet.” Thomas bent and picked up the wineskin, opening it to take a long drink before waiting a beat, then passing it to William.

“No,” Theodore shook his head. “I have no choice now; I have to convince Gregory of the mistake we made here. He knows what the right thing to do is – he’s just been swayed by the Doge, the other commanders.” His breath caught, and he opened his eyes to see deep scepticism rooted in William and Thomas’ eyes. “I cannot allow myself to believe that my friends are beyond redemption. But what happened tonight-“ He buried his face in his folded arms for a minute, forearms braced upon his knees.

_Bodies bleeding into the dark soil / the sound of wailing filling the air / fire and smoke choking out all life / Mother Mary’s tears at the loss of her children._

When he spoke again, it was with tears in his voice. “It was like staring into the bowels of Hell.”

And there, a soft touch, the press of William’s hand upon his arm. A kindness he did not deserve.

“Forgive me,” Theodore pleaded, looking up to meet his eyes one last time. “I should have listened. Forgive me.”

And this time, in William’s eyes, in the warmth of his hand, in the gentle press of his lips, Theodore was granted absolution.

 

_Each step is a step back to you._

**Author's Note:**

> Follow my blogs at http://www.tessbowery.com or http://tessbowery.tumblr.com for information on other writing projects!


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